The Lamentation of Doctor Watson
by Quinnzical
Summary: Moriarty deals with jealousy differently, and more violently, than the rest of humanity.
1. Aria de Felice

_A/N My newest obsession, Sherlock and Watson. I am not entirely certain how many chapters this will be, but I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. Many cackles have been let loose from my lips as I hear the dialogue in my own head. Whether or not this qualifies me as insane is to be said, but I think it just makes me what we all aim to be. A writer, of fan-fiction, but a writer non-the-less. Please do send me a review, or a critique. I have yet to find a beta reader, so these little stories of mine are going out to you unabridged. _

**Genre: **Sherlock

**Notes:** Inspired loosely by Descendants of Darkness. [Yami No Matsuei.]

**Rating:** T, Mild Violence

...

**The Lamentation of Doctor Watson**

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

_Chapter One: Aria de Felice _

There were few cases where Sherlock did not feel the end result was a success. Most of those failures, in his mind, were due to there being a complete lack of fun in the chase. Nothing interesting, all too simplistic, text book crimes that he could solve in his sleep. A few puzzles left him absolutely euphoric. A genius level criminal that gave the genius level crime solver just enough of a thrill that left him buzzing at the end.

Doctor Watson looked forward to the ends of those cases. Not just because they were, ultimately, the most difficult and most dangerous ones to solve, but because of the giddy excitement that radiated off of Sherlock once they were alone.

"Fantastic!" He would proclaim, nearly jumping for joy at John's side. "That was absolutely fantastic."

Watson would smile, withhold a laugh and take a moment to memorize the glint of happiness in Sherlock's steely eyes. It wasn't decent that a man get so much pleasure from the seedy crimes of the demented underworld, but John figured it was just as indecent to enjoy Sherlock's glee.

They stood together at the back of a concert hall, basking in the afterglow of one of those cases. The lanky detective beaming at his side, and John standing at a parade rest beside him, grinning softly. They watched the young girl on stage, softly singing in a language that Watson didn't understand, completely oblivious as to how many times the duo saved her life that evening.

Seven, by John's count, though he could be off slightly. There was a great deal of running and he always had trouble with math when he was rushing about.

"She has no idea." He muttered softly, his fingers drumming lightly against each other as he curled his hands together behind his back. Sherlock gave no more than the vaguest of nods, the delighted little grin still on his lips.

"They rarely do." He responded in kind and then fell silent as her voice filled the acoustics of the room. The aria that she sung was sad and almost tragic, and yet they continued to smile to each other as if her voice was carrying the lightest cherzando. Only a shadow shifting in the corner of John's vision broke his happy train of thought, his gaze flicking away from the young girl for only a moment.

It was likely nothing, as the case was solved and the criminal in Lestrade's custody, but the prickling hairs on the back of his neck and the cold chill that followed told him otherwise. He gave a glance to Sherlock [who in his infinite ability to observe had missed the shadow completely] before he stepped away, drawn to investigate alone by the silent call of curiosity.

Watson thought he had called Sherlock's name, but wasn't entirely sure, as the moment he stepped through the curtain, the world faded into silence and black. There was barely any time to guess as to whether it was a blow to his head or a tranquilizer that brought him down before the sweet voice of the songstress was replaced by nothingness.

Sherlock cocked his head only slightly at his name being called, his gaze still fixed to the stage. "Hm?"

With no response and the warmth beside him replaced by a cold emptiness, Holmes turned and his brow creased just slightly. How had he not noticed that John had wandered off? More so, why did it feel so absolutely foreboding?

"Doctor?" He called out quietly, stepping towards a curtain that had just finished shifting back into place. There was a twinge of John's aftershave in the air, but as Sherlock pushed aside the fabric he discovered that to be the only sign that his friend had been there a moment before. "...Watson?"

A quiet tone sounded from his coat pocket, his gaze flicking down one end of the hallway and then the other as he absentmindedly pulled his cellphone out to check the text message. The small, digital letters that greeted him twisted up an odd feeling in his stomach. It was John's number, but not his words.

_Dinner Tonight? 5 Glentworth St. 8PM. Dress Nice. JM._

_..._

Waking, when something is preventing it, is ultimately the most difficult thing to accomplish in a smooth and dignified manner. There was an ache scattered throughout various points of John's body, and a soft dripping of a leaky faucet that helped to pull him from his current state of unconsciousness. He noted, first, the pain. Steady, sharp stings in both wrists, ankles and throat, and a tingling state of numbness that had pulled the feeling from his fingertips and toes. He snorted in a sharp breath, immediately regretting the rapid movement.

As awareness slowly settled, and the fuzz over his vision dissipated, he concluded that the pain was caused by a very thin wire wrapped around each of his limbs and neck. He was bound, standing, to some sort of post, and attempting to shift or move in any way only caused the cord to tighten. John cleared his throat against the strand, pulling in a steady breath to calm his nerves.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." The soft, nearly haunting voice that broke the silence was enough to answer all of the questions that had begun swimming about in his mind.

"Moriarty.." He choked out, his eyes twitching slightly as he snapped up his gaze towards his captor.

"Oh good!" He clapped his hands, taking slow, graceful strides to stand in front of John. His fingertips softly brushing against the front of his jumper to straighten out the wrinkles caused by the kidnapping. "I was beginning to think you two had forgotten me."

"What do you want?"

Moriarty let a soft 'tut' fall from his lips, his head canting to the side as he gazed at the doctor almost disapprovingly. "No, John. Bad form. This..." He waved his hand a bit, gesturing over Watson's captive form. "..This isn't about _me_."

"This is about you! You and Sherlock." He grinned, continuing to pat, brush and pet over John's chest and shoulders. "How close you have become, how.. friendly. How sweet and supportive, like old mates or little girls sharing your secrets and giggles. Frankly, it's a little disgusting."

"You don't... like.. my friendship with Sherlock?" He dared to ask, his voice still hoarse and choked as the wire cut a little deeper into his throat.

"I don't like you!" He hissed, jabbing a finger into Watson's chest. "Sherlock has always been a beautiful creature. Such genius, such insanity wasted in the pursuit of justice. And then you.. you had to show up and ruin him. Making him...care.. making him, normal."

"You are destroying a carefully crafted masterpiece, John." Moriarty glared at him, shaking his head as if to shame him for being a friend to Sherlock Holmes.

"What's all this then?" Watson glanced around with minimal movement, a shift of his hands bringing about a refreshed twinge of pain through his wrists. "Revenge? A game?"

The response was a uproarious laugh, followed by a slow, sad shake of Moriarty's head. "No, John. No games. No clues, no hints. Just.. a question. Can Sherlock Holmes find you... before you bleed to death?"

John's brow twitched slightly, his gaze flicking down as much as he could manage. There were notable aches, bruises, from his abduction, certainly a few cuts bleeding slightly where the wire had begun to slice through the first layers of skin. But, there were no injuries that threatened death. He watched Moriarty carefully, licking his lips.

"I am not.. bleeding."

The grin that curled up the corners of Jim's lips was filled with such amusement, such cold delight, that even John found it difficult not to shudder. "Tell me, Doctor Watson. Long since patched up and healed...Does the old battle wound still hurt?"

The firm pressure of a gun barrel against his shoulder was enough to trigger his military training. They had all gone through the process. In case any of them every found themselves a prisoner of war, in case any of them found themselves tortured by the enemy. His jaw clenched, his chin raised ever so slightly, John Watson prepared for the inevitable agony.

The gunshot was deafening.


	2. Aria de Dolente

_A/N I am taking liberties with scientific fact regarding gunshot wounds and how long someone would stay awake/alive with one point blank to their shoulder. Suspend reality and pretend that Watson is as bad ass as I want him to be. Yes. _

**Chapter Two: Aria de Dolente**

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

Sherlock was rarely surprised at anything, and less so was he ever caught off guard. He could see plans and plots coming a mile away with no significant warning, and would give himself ample time to prepare, react, and respond. How peculiar then, in that moment, that a simple text message would leave him standing shocked into a state of dumbfounded inactivity.

_Dinner Tonight? 5 Glentworth St. 8PM. Dress Nice. JM._

The digital read out of the time on his phone gave him little more than twenty three minutes before the time he was to meet with Moriarty. The address specified was a fifteen minute drive by cabbie from his present location, and he certainly had no intentions of returning to Baker Street to _dress nice._ That gave him eight minutes, give or take, to think of something.

He turned his phone on its side and flipped open the keyboard, quickly pressing buttons as he pulled up various pages of information from the internet. A map of the area, a few links to city planning blue prints and then finally, his messaging program. He typed quickly before slipping the phone back within his pocket, his coat flipping out behind him as he made his way rapidly from the concert hall.

Four minutes.

….

5 Glentworth Street was the address of a fairly well known Chinese restaurant. Catering to couples seeking a romantic meal, or tourists looking for a fancy place to dine, it held back nothing when it came to décor, atmosphere and quality of the plates served. Sherlock arrived outside of its doors with a minute to spare and gave a cursory glance to his cellphone before he made his way inside. The lack of messages sent in response to his own caused a soft click of his tongue against his teeth, the only sign of his building anxiety.

"Sherlock." Moriarty nearly sung his name, drawing the detectives attentions away from the swarm of thoughts in his head as he found himself waved over to a quiet corner booth. A singular candle was lit in the middle, the soft glow sending sharp little shadows dancing about the walls. "So glad you could come."

Sherlock remained standing, a cautionary glance around at the other patrons of the dining hall. Though Moriarty had a flair for the dramatic, he made it painfully obvious that he didn't care for an audience. There were enough of them, lost in their trite conversations, to prevent any scene from occurring. Ever so quietly, radiating calm, Holmes turned his attentions back to the man sitting before him. "Where is he."

"Hm?" He raised a brow, taking a moment to sip from his wine glass. He savored the rich flavor, letting it warm against his tongue as he made a silent attempt at guessing the differing tastes. "In due time, Sherlock. Please, have a seat?"

"Where is Watson?"

"Sit. Down." Moriarty's gaze shifted from playful to full of malice in an instant, flicking back to boyish delight as Holmes hesitated for just a moment and then slid to sit across from him at the table. They remained silent, then, simply staring at each other. Mentally cataloging everything they could as the minutes ticked by.

"I've been a fan of yours for _years, _Sherlock. I've watched you grow, so to speak. All this time, perfecting your little _gift._ Catching bad guys, unraveling twisted strings and sliding the pieces of life's great puzzle into place." He took a moment to pour a second glass of wine, sliding it across the table. Sherlock merely dropped a glance to it, acknowledging it's presence before ignoring it completely.

"How many of your cases, the ones that give you that _delightful_ little shiver after you've solved it, do you think were completely random?"

There was a pause and neither man moved as the waiter arrived to set a plate of cuisine in front the mad man. "None of them, Sherlock. Tokens of my adoration for you. My gifts, as they were, and I know you liked them. I know how much you enjoy figuring out the hints, the clues, working it all out in that beautiful head of yours. And that's all I really want, Sherlock. I just want to see you _happy_."

He grinned, motioning to the prepared meal. "I would have ordered you something, but I know how you don't like to eat when you're on a case. Digestion slows you down."

"Where..is Watson."

Moriarty frowned slightly, setting his fork down against the plate with such a startling clatter that a few patrons around them turned to glare. "Are you even listening?"

The surrounding conversations faded slightly, and both men paused to glance around. People were staring, people were listening. In the growing quiet, Moriarty let a heavy sigh fall from his lips before he retrieved his fork and gave it a light tap against the wine goblet. The ting of metal on glass echoed through the restaurant and Sherlock could do little more than raise a brow as every single person, both patron and employee, stood and silently walked out.

"There. That is better." Moriarty pulled in a slow breath, taking a moment to enjoy a rather savory piece of chicken. He left Sherlock to sit in uncomfortable silence while he ate, giving him no more than a casual glance as he reached for his wine and took a long, slow sip. "We are perfect for each other, Sherlock, and I think you realize it. Every one else is so _dull._"

"You're not my type." Sherlock mused, radiating disinterest from every pore of his body as he fought the urge to simply stand and walk out with the rest of the crowd.

"Hmm.. no, I'm not, am I. You like them a bit stockier, military trained, loyal." His lips curved with delight and malice, the wine glass lingering a breath away. "Bleeding to death."

Sherlock's cold exterior faltered slightly, his gaze snapping to Moriarty's own as the psychopath continued to eat his dinner in relative silence. His steely eyes shifted rapidly over the other man's clothing, searching for any specks of red, any splashes of crimson that would verify the statement.

"Where is Watson?" He demanded one last time, finding the lack of any response to be unnerving more so than the grin that stayed firmly curled at Moriarty's lips.

"Come now, Sherlock. We both know that you've already figured that bit out. You could tell the moment you saw me as to where I have been, and I have no doubt that you've used your extensive knowledge of the city to calculate locations I could have had him taken, both within radius to the concert hall and this restaurant." He shook his head, almost disappointed that Sherlock had chosen to feign ignorance. "Truly, the only question you should be asking is, if you've known this entire time... why have you been sitting here with _me_ instead of rushing off to save the dying pet."

A singular tone sounded from the depths of Sherlock's jacket pocket. The sound echoing to the detectives ears like the heralding of angels. What worry flickered over his features faded, the half cocked grin on his lips reappearing as he flicked out the cellphone and glanced at the screen.

It contained a seemingly innocuous string of numbers, but it was what he had been waiting for. An address. THE address where John Watson had been taken and was waiting for Sherlock to come to his rescue.

"Why, indeed." Sherlock muttered, giving the vaguest of nods in Moriarty's direction as he turned to leave. "We are not finished, Moriarty. I will stop you."

"No, I don't believe you will." He shifted his napkin off of his lap, lightly brushing it at his lips. "You need me, Sherlock. You want me out there... giving you puzzles, making your life electric!"

The words faded as Holmes left the restaurant and Jim Moriarty behind him. His footfalls steady and swift as he began running down the streets of London. There was no time for a cabbie, the moments ticking by as he thought of one thing and one thing only.

Out there, John Watson was dying, and he simply had to save him.

…

There were moments when the burning fire of pain in his shoulder gave way to nothing. He could feel his body sagging against the wires at his wrists and throat, the thin metal cutting a little further as consciousness faded. He would jerk awake, some small part of his brain commanding him to continue the fight, some small voice demanding that he stay focused, stay awake, stay alive long enough for Sherlock to find him.

_Sherlock. _

The genius idiot. So brilliant and so daft, that every moment spent in close proximity had Watson wondering how he went about his life before being drawn into the gravity that was Detective Holmes.

_Why now. Why now, at a time like this, am I thinking of him. _

John pulled a ragged breath past his lips; fighting the cold, fighting the dark. He needed something to focus on, something to draw his attention away from how he felt and the fear that was bubbling up along his spine. He tried to focus his gaze on the room around him, trying desperately to force away the blur so he could count spots on the wall, or cracks in the floor.

_What would Sherlock be thinking about if he was in this situation? Sherlock wouldn't be in this situation. Too smart, too clever to get himself kidnapped, wired to a post and shot. _

_Sherlock, Sherlock. Sherlock._

"Watson!" It came faint, distant and whispered at the cusp of unconsciousness. His name, shouted through empty hallways and vacant rooms. Yelled, in desperation, twinged with fear. He wanted to call out, to respond, to plead and beg to be found. He wanted to scream out Sherlock! and delight at being rescued at just the right moment when the seconds of his declining state made everything so perfectly dramatic.

But his voice was gone, his vision fading and the sound of someone yelling his name all too far away.

_Sherlock. _

….

He could smell the blood in the air, nearly taste it on his tongue as he ran through abandoned hallways, yelling for John Watson. Cold and empty rooms, every door slammed open revealed nothing but forgotten furniture and years of dust. He called out again, his own voice sounding foreign as it shook with uncertainty, breaking as the ticking seconds left him fearful.

There was one door left, one door at the end of a long hallway where the tang of copper permeated the air like a thick fog. The door beckoned him, screamed to him in the silence and Sherlock responded in kind by running all the faster. His heart leaping as his hand reached out to shove the door aside, John's name falling just short of a whisper as he rushed into the room and found himself lacking the ability to breathe.

The room, nearly painted with the brilliant red of blood, was empty.

_Watson..._


	3. Aria De Fretta

_A/N: Credit to Maddox for his help with medical questions. Thank you all for your lovely reviews and I have taken all of them to heart. Many of you voiced your concern that the BBC Sherlock/John were on first name basis unlike the original books/RDJ movie and I thought it over. Though I wanted to give a nod to the original, I see your point and have worked in the familiar nomenclatures per request. I hope it improves things. Always, please send a review. I love them all so dearly. _

**Chapter Three: Aria De Fretta**

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

_..._

"Mr. Watson!"

The booming voice pulled him violently from his thoughts, his gaze snapping up as a stifled chorus of laughter tittered on around him. Whatever had been preoccupying his mind quickly faded as the cold, clinical surroundings of St. Barts crashed into his surroundings. He had fallen so far into his subconscious that he hadn't even noticed that he was singled out to answer a series of questions.

"If I am not causing you too much of an inconvenience, perhaps you would like to provide an answer?"

John found his tongue dry and his palms clammy, a helpless gaze at the burning stares of the strangers around him did nothing to alleviate the sudden social discomfort. Idly, he rubbed at his shoulder as a vague ache started to build deep within the muscle, must have slept on it wrong the night before.

"The question, Sir?" He asked hesitantly, licking at his lips.

"Yes, Mr. Watson! I am looking for a diagnosis!" His professor was impatiently tapping a pen across his desk, the steady rhythm nearly pounding in his skull, but all he could do was sit and blink.

The ache in his shoulder throbbed lightly.

"...For?" His brow furrowed as the laughter increased for a moment and a sudden wave of embarrassment coursed through his skin. It wasn't like him to space out during a lecture, much less ignore their professor so wholly that he didn't have a clue as to what they were even discussing.

"One more time, Mr. Watson." The older man huffed slightly, the pen tapping feverishly against the surface of his desk. "You've just come across a patient suffering from low blood pressure, nausea, sweating, clammy skin, shallow breathing."

The answer seemed easy and he could feel it dancing about on his tongue. Every first year medical student know what those symptoms meant. He nodded slightly and parted his lips, but hesitated as his stomach retched. He clenched at his shoulder a little tighter as if the pressure would still the urge he had to suddenly vomit all over his desktop. It did not.

"Professor..." Was all he could manage before he turned violently to his right and heaved his lunch across the worn tiles.

"Oh, John... that is vile." Sherlock muttered slightly, looking down at the splash of regurgitated fluids with a slight crease of his features. Watson should have been surprised at his flatmate sitting beside him in the classroom, he should have been thrown off at his gangly limbs folded uncomfortably beneath the small desk. He could only sit and stare, breathing almost labored as he struggled between the desire to retch again and his confusion at Sherlock's indifference.

Between pained breaths he watched Sherlock raise his hand and the professor standing before them smiled in _delight. "_Mr. Holmes! Fantastic. Do you have an answer."

"Yes. It's obvious, isn't it? The patient is suffering from a h**emorrhagic** shock induced by the wound to his left anterior scapula. If he isn't treated within the next hour, it isn't likely that he will survive." Sherlock's voice was calm, precise and calculated, and for once, John was struggling to focus on it.

"What..?" He muttered, shaking his head as the classroom blurred slightly and the ache in his arm increased to a constant burn. "He never mentioned an injury."

"But it's so obvious, John." Sherlock glanced at him, his features unchanged as he flicked his gaze over Watson's bent form. He had started slouching over in his desk, the dizziness behind his eyes and the nausea toiling through his stomach threatening to send him toppling over. "He is bleeding everywhere."

John gripped at his shoulder again as the burn increased and he found himself gaping at his own fingers as they came away covered in the sticky warmth of blood. Though he could see the professor and Sherlock speaking animatedly as the rest of the class listened, silence fell. As if struck invisible, none paid him any heed as he moved to stand from his desk as collapsed from a sudden lack of strength.

"Sherlock, help..." He called out, reaching up for the man sitting a mere foot away. His friend didn't hear him, and things were starting to fade away. "Sherlock!"

…

Watson jolted awake in the heat of the Afghanistan sun, torn from a nightmare too odd to comprehend and too blurred to remember coherently. He took a moment to lie on his cot, pulling in deep steady breaths as he fought away the unnerving sensations tickling their way along his spine, pulling at the back of his skull. He never did well with dreams.

There was a cacophony of voices in the distance that pulled him from his reverie, his hands reflexively moving to grab his uniform from where he lay it the night before. He dressed methodically, straightening out the fabric over his chest and pausing only to rub at an ache in his shoulder. Must have slept on it wrong, he decided, before stepping from the tent to report for duty.

"Watson!"

A voice yelled at him across the yard, strong and commanding, full of anger. He snapped to attention and raised his hand to salute his Lieutenant, squinting as the glaring sun crept below his cap in the motion. "Sir!"

"You're late, Watson!" There was a hand at his shoulder, shoving him along towards a waiting convoy of vehicles. "You're on the front lines, Watson! We need men out there!"

"Sir?" His steps faltered slightly, his gaze snapping up as he shook his head in defiance. "Sir, I am a medic."

"Front lines!"

There was a flurry of movement before he realized he was being shoved along into a waiting vehicle, a gun of a caliber he wasn't familiar, placed into his trembling hands. He had seen his fair share of violence, he helped to patch up the gaping holes, cauterizing off the ends of missing limbs, but he rarely had to take part in it. He could, if necessary, but he was a doctor, damn it, not a soldier.

"It's alright, John." Sherlock muttered softly and John looked up rapidly to see his friend sitting across from him in the Humvee. The long black coat and blue scarf was replaced by the sandy colored military issued uniform and the unruly black curls were tucked firmly beneath a cap.

"Sherlock? ...What.."

"It will be alright." He glanced across at Watson, curling the corner of his mouth up before his attention was drawn back out to the passing desert scenery. "You're not going to die."

"That's a little disconcerting." He furrowed his brow, shaking his head as his both his confusion and the ache in his shoulder, increased. "What are you doing here?"

"I will find you." Sherlock looked at him but something seemed different. His eyes were darker, fretting silently beneath the brim of the cap. "So don't worry, John. Just stay strong, like the soldier you are, and I will find you."

The vehicle lurched to a stop and Watson found himself being shoved out into the hot sand by soldiers he didn't recognize. He tried to keep an eye on Sherlock, but in the flurry of movements and camouflage, he lost sight of him. "Sherlock?"

He turned on his heel, squinting in the bright of the sun and the burn of air, his hand shifting up to grip at his shoulder as the ache turned into a burn that throbbed straight through him. A vague groan fell from his lips as he continue to look for his friend, the palm of his hand suddenly slick. He blink at it for a moment, not registering the color of blood contrasting so brilliantly against his tanned skin and white sand. "Sherlock!"

…

The silence of the empty room was shattered by Sherlock's cellphone ringing in his pocket. Not a singular tone this time to signify the arrival of a text message, but a constant droning noise of someone calling him. There was the slightest of twitches in his eyes as he glanced at the screen before pressing the little green button to connect.

John's Number.

"Guess again." Not John's voice. Moriarty's sing-song tenor crooned over the line, and Sherlock did little more than blink.

"I never guess." There was a cold venom to his words, his gaze still trained on the gruesome scene around him, the smell of it growing stale and sickening.

"Oh come now, Sherlock. You would have been disappointed if it was this easy." He clicked his tongue softly, breathing slowly into the cellphone. "Well, I can tell you're upset so I thought I would give you a little present. Behind the door and don't say I never gave you anything nice."

Sherlock turned slightly, his gaze falling on the door he shoved open in haste. He held the phone lightly in his hand as he reached to pull it away from the wall, studying the small object lying on the floor with calculated interest. "A two way radio?"

"Time ticks, Sherlock." The line cut off and Holmes glanced down at his cellphone for a moment. The screen defaulted and then fell black before he slipped it back into his coat pocket. He wasn't sure what to expect as he knelt down to pick up the radio, toggling the volume from silence to a crackling hiss. It could be another red herring, or a useful clue that he could use to find his missing blogger. Certainly he wasn't expecting to hear his own name, weakly and choked, rattling through the tiny speaker.

"..Sherlock.."

"John?" He furrowed his brow, adjusting the volume slightly. He could hear labored breathing, broken by moments of terrifying silence before another gasp would sound. "John."

"Left anterior scapula. Not much time. Hemorrhagic shock." The silence fell again as Sherlock started pacing the room, his mind a whir of erratic thoughts. "Threw up on your shoes. Sorry."

"What? No you didn't." He paused in his pacing, odd things happening between his stomach and his heart. "John, I need you to focus. I need to know if you can see anything around you. I need facts, John."

"Got shot again." He mumbled, nearly wheezing between struggled gasps. "Met your friend."

"A man like me doesn't have friends."

"Wouldn't say that..I thought.. we were.. becoming.. good.. frie-.."

The air was filled with the stench of decomposing blood and the sound of hissing interference over the radio, the throbbing of Sherlock's own heartbeat nearly drowning out all of it as he brought a hand up to his hair. Tugging at the strands, he struggled to organize his thoughts, catalog them, line them up so he could just _see_ the answer he was looking for.

"Think, damn it, think!" He scolded himself, pushing aside pesky emotions in favor of cold calculations. "Radius of the theater to the restaurant narrowed it down to five locations. Lestrade was able to track a lorry to this building but it was a false lead so, where could they have taken him so quickly, so secretively. People would have noticed, someone would have alerted the police. John said he was shot, so there was gun fire. No one reported that either. Why did no one report it. Because no one heard it. Silencer, or somewhere the sound wouldn't have traveled far."

There was still silence over the line, meaning John had either gone unconscious again or it was too late. It was enough to spark off the adrenaline in Sherlock's system, his lips nearly tingling.

"Subterranean, then. If not a building than an underground location. A tramway, the tube. No sounds of trains in the background on the radio, a constant signal but only silence. Where is there no noise going in or out that they would have been able to get him to without being seen."

"..Sherlock.." Watson's voice was quieter now, but it was there and there was good enough. "Always liked this bit. Your voice... That singer had nothing on you."

The detective fell still, the radio nearly falling from his fingertips as his eyes widened and his jaw slacked. How could he have been so _dense_. "Oh! John, you brilliant man! This whole time! Hold on, John!"

Sherlock started running.


	4. Volti Subito

_A/n Here it is, the end. Please let me know what you thought, and if there is any way I can improve for future stories. Thank you for reading!_

**Chapter 4: Volti Subito **

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

Within the taxi, his mobile chimed, and the sound was jarring in comparison to the dull static hissing through the speaker of the radio and the droning of the vehicles engine. Sherlock gave it a glance, sliding his thumb over the screen to answer the call.

"Well done,_ you_." Moriarty crooned and Sherlock could almost feel him leering over the line. The uncomfortable desire to roll his eyes welling up as he dropped his gaze from the quickly passing scenery and listened. "All figured out, rushing in on your white stead, wearing your shiny woolen armor and kitschy little scarf. _Dull_!"

"Locking him away in the recording studio in the subbasement of the theater, Moriarty? Sending me off on a wayward hunt? For what?" He gestured to the cabbie, resting the phone against his shoulder to muffle his directions back to the concert hall. It had been 128 minutes since John first disappeared, approximately 105 since he was certain that his friend had been gravely injured.

Just over an hour and a half; he had to move quickly.

"Oh Sherlock. I told you that you would be disappointed if it were that easy. Why would I go through all this trouble just to watch you run around? Not that I don't _like_ watching you run around. I do, Sherlock. I _really_ do."

There was a jolt of the taxi as it slowed to a stop, a gathered crowd at the steps to the concert hall spilling into the street impeding further progression forward. Delightful little couples lost in their happy little worlds, no clue that a man was dying only a few stair cases and doorways away. Sherlock tossed the contents of his wallet through the open window as he fled the back seat, muttering to keep the change. He lightly pressed the phone back to his ear, glancing down at the radio that only continued to whisper the stomach sinking silence.

"What was the point to it? There is no point! I will save him, nothing will be different."

"Won't it? This is only the beginning, Sherlock. A testing of the water. A little dip of your toes into the pool. Can you feel your heartbeat? Can you feel it thrumming deep in your chest? The excitement. The enjoyment of it, _vibrating._ If you liked this.. _wait_ until you see what I have planned for _next_ time."

None of the men and women gathered outside paid him any attention as he brushed by their expensively clad shoulders, nudging couples apart as he made a direct line towards the entry. They simply parted, and then gravitated back together as if he was merely a strong wind that had gusted past.

"There won't _be_ a next time."

"Yes there will, Sherlock. And you're looking forward to it."

Any further protest to Moriarty's threats were cut into nothingness as the line fell dead and he dropped the mobile effortlessly into the pocket of his coat. The weight of it bounced against his thigh as he ran a little faster, letting himself in through a side entrance that led to the recording studios beneath. He held the radio up to his ear, listening for anything to break the monotonous droning of interference, anything that would tell him that he still had time.

Rarely one to panic, he took the stairs three at a time and paused only for seconds to toss aside closed doors. A singular glance inside to confirm they were empty before he moved onto the next and the next. Only when he tried a door handle and found it locked and resisting his rather firm grip, did he give another glance to the radio.

"John?" He couldn't hear anything through the door, he wouldn't with the way these rooms were insulated for sound. Taking a step back he gave a firm kick to the surface and the static broke only slightly. It was the right room, and john was only a few solid blows to the locked door away from being saved. Abandoning the radio to the floor of the hallway and sliding out his mobile to send a rapid text to Lestrade, Sherlock took a slow breath and threw himself against the barrier between him and his friend.

What thoughts he had in his mind of bruises forming at his shoulder, or strained muscles deep beneath the skin, dissipated almost as quickly as they arrived the second the door gave way. It slammed open into the room, bits of wood flying out against the silver knobs and switches of the soundboard. The only source of light came from the small room just beyond a thick window of double paned glass and the image beneath the sickly yellow glow stopped Sherlock's breath in his chest.

_John..._

A support beam stood to the side of the room, and bound to it by thin wire, was the only real friend Sherlock had ever had. His skin was sickly pale, his lips twinged a shade of blue that Holmes had only ever seen on cadavers. Red, so much red, painted from shoulder to shoe along Watson's left side, and seeping easily from the gaping wound. He wasn't moving.

Reality crashed in and Sherlock threw himself at the next door, not knowing if he had started yelling John's name aloud or if the screaming was only in his head. There were several solid bolts that had been recently installed on the door, and each one of them had been locked firmly with a deluxe model padlock. They merely jingled at the detective as he tried to force them into pieces, taunting him. A sound, that Sherlock could not define, fell from his lips as he gave one last valiant effort in breaking through the wooden surface. The choked noise ending in a bit of a growl as he nearly tore his hands through his hair, trying not to stare through the window at his dying companion.

Beside him, a chair offered it's silent assistance. Looking up to him with a hopeful smile and a kind gesture of existence that only said, 'use me, idiot.' Sherlock stared at it for a moment before hefting it off the floor, turning his head away from Watson at the last second before metal pronged feet of the kind chair smashed through the glass of the window that separated them.

He felt a small shard dig its way into his palm as he clamored through, but he ignored the sudden pain and bleeding as his long fingers working quickly to unwind the wire from around John's throat. It had begun to cut through the skin, leaving a deep red gash around his neck that stood out all the more against his pale skin. Sherlock knelt to unbind his feet and then his wrists, struggling to catch the limp form of his friend as he began to slump and fall to the floor. He ended up with John's head in his lap and his own legs bent awkwardly beneath them both.

"John! John.." Sherlock bent slightly to listen for a breath, his index finger pressing firmly into the undamaged skin of Watson's wrist. He tried to ignore the blue of his skin, and he tried not to look at the emptiness whenever his eyes would loll back into his head. He tried not to focus on the massive blood loss and the fact that they were currently sitting it in. He instead tried to focus on the faint sound of sirens echoing through the broken window, and the distant pounding of footfalls rushing down flights of stairs. He instead focused on the very faint, thready rhythm beneath his fingertips and the small gasp of air that sounded an awful lot like his name being whispered.

"Sherlock.."

…

Seven days, thirteen hours and six minutes since the last time he heard John say his name and Sherlock could still hear the gasped whisper as clear as it was then. Every thing was just as vivid as time continued to tick past him, his mental hard drive refusing to erase the images burned into his mind. The shades of blue, the brilliance of the red that covered both of them. He would close his eyes, and he would be back within that room, holding him as he slowly finished bleeding to death.

Even Mycroft couldn't stop him from buying the pack of cigarettes, and no one bothered to tell the shady man in the long coat that he was breaking laws by standing so close to a building, smoking them. The most he got from passing strangers were questioning glances as to why he would be out in the rain, soaked from head to toe, and still insisting on smoking. He curled his palm around it, keeping it as dry as possible as he brought it to his lips and took in a slow drag. For a moment, his hands stopped shaking.

Hesitant, uneven footsteps made their way to his side and suddenly the rain was shielded away by an umbrella being held over his head. He glanced to the side, giving a disapproving twitch of his brow as he flicked the ash from the burning tip and let the filter rest at his lips.

"You should be resting." He muttered.

"I'm alright." John shifted on his feet a little, resting the majority of his weight on his left leg as he fought to hold the umbrella with one hand. The other arm rested firmly at his chest, held in place by, what felt like, an entire case of bandages, gauze, antibiotics, and a sling. There was a thin bandage still wrapped around his neck, creasing slightly as he turned and winced to regard Sherlock with a glance. "You alright?"

"Mhm. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Best friend gets kidnapped, tied to a pole, left for dead..." He frowned a little, glancing at the curl of blue smoke as he crept out from the taller man's hand, whipping up around his arm before disappearing into the falling rain. It only took a moment longer before Sherlock flicked the cigarette out into the gutter, shifting to take the umbrella away from John. "You're smoking again."

"Best friend?"

John smiled a little, nodding as he shoved his unburdened hand within his jacket pocket to warm it. "Well... yes. I am, aren't I?"

"I don't know. I've never had one."

"Never?" Doubtfully, John raised a brow and let his gaze drift around to watch those rushing about to get out of the gale. It struck him as amusing, just for a moment, that he and Sherlock seemed to be the only two people in all of London content to stand in it. "Not even as a kid?"

"Mycroft..."

"So, no then."

Sherlock laughed quietly, the sound pulling a similarly happy noise from deep in Watson's chest. The grin on the taller man's face enough to chase away the chill of the weather, and make standing in the rain seem not so ludicrous. Neither thought of the threat that Moriarty still posed, neither allowing it to drive them into an ever present state of fear. They would beat him, and at the end, Holmes and Watson will be standing side by side, laughing.

_The End._


End file.
